


we still are made of greed

by youcallitwinter



Category: Good Wife (TV)
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-14
Updated: 2013-03-14
Packaged: 2017-12-05 05:23:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,665
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/719357
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/youcallitwinter/pseuds/youcallitwinter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Try as he might, he can never quite recall her expression; <i>then don't be in love with me.</i> [Kalinda/Cary] [oneshot] [Post 4x08]</p>
            </blockquote>





	we still are made of greed

**Author's Note:**

> Set post 4x08. After Nick gets Cary beaten up, basically.

_"I don't like you being in my head."_  
  
It's the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth, so help him god.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
Alicia's standing beside the stark white sheet when he comes to.  
  
She smiles, worry and concern vying for space on her forehead  
  
"Welcome back, Cary" she says.  
  
He tries to smile back; every part of him aches.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
("We couldn't get through to the first number on your speed dial." The nurse tells him, "so we tried the second and Mrs. Florrick came in as soon as she could."  
  
He's been meaning to change that anyway. He keeps forgetting.)  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
"So," Alicia says carefully, when they're walking out together, "what happened?"  
  
She's careful around him, sometimes, he's noticed. Like she's not quite sure how far their new-found camaraderie extends. She's second on his speed-dial, that has to mean something.  
  
"Basketball injury," his voice sounds rougher with a few hours' disuse.  
  
He doesn't have to think, though. Before lying. Maybe it's an occupational hazard.  
  
Alicia looks over at him, once, getting into the driver's seat, "oh."  
  
He stares straight ahead.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
Back in his apartment, he takes out a basketball.  
  
( _It's exhausting_ , he'd once said, he remembers, drunk out of his mind,  _being in love with you. It's like a second job. With no benefits, no health insurance, no pay packages, no prestige, no power, nothing. It's exhausting._  
  
Try as he might, he can never quite recall her expression;  _then don't be in love with me_.)  
  
He hasn't made a single basket by the time his phone rings.  
  
"Fletcher can't use the papers," she says, without preamble, "the search was illegal. They needed a warrant for it, but they didn't get one till three hours later."  
  
 _Fruit of the forbidden tree,_  he thinks.  
  
"Okay," he replies, disconnects first.  
  
The next time he shoots, the basketball hits the rim and bounces back, hitting him on the head. As the throbbing starts again, he laughs.  
  
Irony, he can deal with.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
 _Fruit of the poisonous tree_ , his textbook says.  
  
("It's the law, not the Bible." his Evidence Law professor repeatedly told them, "don't mix your metaphors.)  
  
He thought he'd have stopped making that mistake by now.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
(She looks at the cut for a long time the next day.  
  
"You're lying," she places the file on his desk, marking the page she wants him to look at.  
  
He shrugs, "why would I lie, Kalinda?"  
  
She doesn't ask for the truth, though.  
  
He can't tell if he would have liked for her to.)  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
Truth is, he has no idea why he still attends these weekly drinking sessions with the fourth year associates, when he doesn't speak more than five words to any of them through the week.  
  
Or rather, he  _does_  know. The same reason the woman in front of him does, even though she has children to go back to, an entire different life somewhere close by.  
  
To belong for a while. If only to oblivion.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
("Get out," he'd told her once, in the State's Attorney's office, harsh, cold, unforgiving, "get out and stay out."  
  
 _You tend to use people's feelings to further your investigations._  
  
"Okay," she'd said, brushing past him in high-heeled boots. She hadn't looked back.  
  
The next day she was on his desk; leaning back, legs crossed, notepad in hand.  
  
He closed the door behind him.)  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
"Why didn't you tell me," she's standing over his desk this time, mouth set in a thin, unattractive line.  
  
He still wants to kiss her more than he wants anything else.  
  
"Tell you what?" he busies himself with papers, because that way, he doesn't have to look at her. It's easier. Sometimes.  
  
"About Nick," she says, "why didn't you tell me about Nick. About—" she gestures to his forehead, he can feel the cut stinging, even though it's been a very long while and he's probably imagining it more than anything else.  
  
"It wasn't Mr. Savarese." he says. The whole truth. It wasn't  _Nick_.  
  
"You should have told me," she repeats, and for a moment he thinks there's something close to fear in her gaze. Like she's worried. About him.  
  
He has been here four years and he is no longer the same man who used to believe it meant something.  
  
He shrugs, "it wasn't about you."  
  
In his head, Savarese pulls her towards him. She shoves back. Then gives in. He gets up from his seat.  
  
(He'd thought she may have needed him just then. Just maybe then to stave off the advances of an overfamiliar client. Something as usual as that. Maybe she could need him for that.  
  
 _Everything's fine._  
  
She didn't. Obviously.)  
  
"It wasn't about you," he says again.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
("If he's," he'd forced the words out, days later, "bothering you, I want to—"  
  
"What," she'd said, mocking, "what do you want to, Cary."  
  
Whatever they may teach at Law School, the only real rule of law is this: do not commit anything to paper.  
  
In his mind, he wrote to her once, about her once. He did not write it down.  
  
He has learnt his lesson well.)  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
She's at his door. It's the first time he can remember.  
  
"He's my husband." she crosses her arms. He can't make out any inflections.  
  
He tries not to stare at the cut on the side of her lip.  
  
"Why tell me now?" he asks.  
  
"Because, now," she looks directly at him, "he's hurt you."  
  
He remembers smiling with her at the copyrighting machine, Savarese's glare cutting through him. Remembers enjoying it.  
  
"I would have liked you to tell me because he's hurt you."  
  
He doesn't mean to say this much. Not always. Not when he knows how this ends.  
  
She glances up at him through hooded eyes, and half-smiles, "maybe I like it that way."  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
He'd passed her by on the way to Will that first day back in the office. It was at his old desk that he'd made his new resolutions.  
  
This is the truth now: he's moved on  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
"She said you were a nice guy, you know", Alicia tells him once, leaning in confidentially, bordering on not-quite-drunk.  
  
"Who?" he asks, because it's expected.  
  
"Kalinda," she says, "Kalinda said you're a nice guy."  
  
She looks over at him expectantly. They haven't done this before, but this is as good a time to start as any.  
  
He thinks of her husband, the man pulling her towards him roughly, the bruises on her arm, the much too heavy make-up,  _it's...complicated, Cary, you won't understand. Nick and I_ —  _it's always been like this. Maybe I like it this way_. She's knowable, but not to him. He's a nice guy.  
  
His smile is brittle, "really?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
("You think" he'd said once in the beginning, the first time around, "you know me. Know about how much of a rich, entitled asshole I am. A Harvard Law Grad, the highest in the chain of command of being a bastard. But you don't. You don't know everything about me. You don't know anything about me."  
  
 _Because you and I are from different worlds. And it's not just Mars and Venus. It's spaghetti and hydrogen. We're different categories._  
  
"So," she'd said, softly, slowly, "you weren't pushed out of your house at the age of eighteen and didn't go through undergrad and Harvard Law on student loans you're still paying?"  
  
He'd stopped short, "how did you—"  
  
Maybe she'd seen it in his eyes then, that he was the kind of guy who'd take that sort of thing to  _mean_ something.  
  
"It's my job to," she'd said.)  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
The call from the hospital is short.  
  
"We couldn't reach Mrs. Florrick or the second number," the efficient-sounding voice informs him, "and you were listed as the third emergency contact."  
  
He doesn't wonder who the second number belongs to. It doesn't matter.  
  
She's awake when he gets there, still in his gym clothes.  
  
"Kalinda." he checks for signs of broken bones, anything.  
  
"Nick's gone." she says definitively.  
  
She looks smaller in the hospital gown. She is small, he knows objectively, but Kalinda always looks so much...more.  
  
 _Gone_. He's a lawyer, he knows all the different meanings of the term and how to manipulate them.  
  
He finds out he doesn't particularly care.  _Gone_  is good.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
He drives her homes afterwards.  
  
She slips her boots off, and props her feet up, staring out the window, her jacket unzipped.  
  
"You trying to be normal?" he asks, taking a sharp turn.  
  
He doesn't know if she remembers.  
  
She doesn't reply, but when he looks over, he catches her gaze in the reflection off the window and yes, yes--  
  
\--she remembers.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
 _Why not,_ he had asked once.  
  
 _Because,_ she had replied.  
  
He had never filled in the spaces.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
He drives back faster than necessary, faster than the law demands.  
  
The light stays red for a long time, he taps his fingers against the steering wheel.  
  
The song on the radio reminds him of his father as things very rarely do. The song that comes on after the light turns green reminds him of her, as things often do.  
  
Maybe it's not the songs, maybe it's just him.  
  
( _What do you want?_  
  
 _Why do you always assume I want something?_  
  
He'd laughed.)  
  
When he turns the corner to his apartment, she's leaning against the wood, hands in the pockets of her leather jacket.  
  
He doesn't know how she managed to get from her place to his before he did, but it's Kalinda.  
  
She's at his door, it's only the second time since he can remember.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
 _I don't like you being in my head_ , he'd said once.  
  
 _Then get me out_ , she had replied.  
  
For the record, he'd tried. Every day, he'd tried.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
(She's looking at him like she always has, jagged edges and sharp angles. But they're smoother now, with time. With time, and something else. Maybe something else.  
  
And unexpectedly, she smiles. Soft, dangerous, tired, mocking, unknowable; everything he's ever learnt about her in a single upturn of her lips.  
  
"Go ahead," she says, "save me.")


End file.
